


white noise

by deanpendragon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, M/M, One Shot, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 06:25:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12205656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanpendragon/pseuds/deanpendragon
Summary: Tsukishima's fingers ache after the Shiratorizawa match. Yamaguchi soothes them.





	white noise

**Author's Note:**

> this is so self-indulgent i could scream but i HAD to do something for tsuk's birthday. last year's bday fic was sweet, so this one gets to be dirty. sorry i don't make the rules. literally guys i have been thinking about a scenario like this since right after this scene happened in the show and FINALLY I PUT IT INTO WORDS.
> 
> enjoy!! comments and kudos are appreciated.

Public bathrooms are louder with one person in them than five. Tsukishima’s glasses clink against the porcelain rim of the sink, his shoes squeak on the tile, his heart smashes against his ribcage, his breath bounces around the tiny room like he’s heaving. He’s still on the court, his body tells him, and it just won’t let it go.

His hand throbs.

There is so much noise outside, outside the bathroom, outside the locker room and in the gyms at the center of the building. Tsukishima’s ears pound from the swift change, but his body still won’t shut up; the thick throbbing of his heart, the steady pulse of his hand, the rattling shake in his knees, pulled to the ground by the sheer weight of his humiliation and uselessness. One point of twenty-five, and he was lucky to even get that. His shoulders are still sore from slaps of congratulations. His teammates, his brother, his peers, Yamaguchi.

Added to the cacophony is the swift creak of the bathroom door.

“Tsukki?” Yamaguchi says, stepping inside. “You okay?”

Tsukishima’s lungs fill and empty. He stares at him through the mirror and Yamaguchi stares back, glancing away to eye the bend of Tsukishima’s fingers over the rim of the sink. He steps closer. His footsteps echo off tile and porcelain. 

“Does your hand hurt?”

He’s too close to see in the mirror anymore so Tsukishima rolls his eyes down at the sink instead. Yamaguchi is warm at his side. His warmth expands through the small room, fogging up the mirrors above the sinks and the lenses of Tsukishima’s abandoned glasses. He should put his regular glasses back on but they’re inside their case, and the clacking sound of it opening and shutting would be too much, too much noise, so Tsukishima forgets it altogether.

Yamaguchi’s fingertip grazes the back of his hand. It trails down to his wrist and disappears.

“You should probably change this, Tsukki,” he suggests. “Did they give you more?”

Tsukishima nods and at once, Yamaguchi shuffles through his bag at Tsukishima’s feet. It’s not a moment before he pulls out the case of bandages given to Tsukishima not an hour ago with an instruction to change them when necessary, when the blood between his fingers leaches into the white fabric the way it does now. Yamaguchi straightens. He lifts Tsukishima’s hand from the rim of the sink, into his own. Tsukishima turns to face him.

Yamaguchi’s hands are gentle but rough, calloused from years of sports and lack of care. Tsukishima breathes out. Yamaguchi glances up at him, his stare soft and sparkling, and peels the edge of the bandage from Tsukishima’s pinky. He winds it around and around, unraveling. Hypnotized, Tsukishima watches. Expert fingers slide over his palm. Yamaguchi’s opposite hand curls over Tsukishima’s wrist. 

The spots of blood beneath the bandages are dry and flaky. A slight squeak and Yamaguchi turns the faucet on, water gushing into the sink at its sole intensity. Yamaguchi wets his fingers. He’s tentative and quiet as he rubs the blood from Tsukishima’s hand. It dissolves easily. His thumb dives between Tsukishima’s pinky and ring finger, and there’s something familiar about the rhythm, something exciting, and Tsukishima glances up from their hands when Yamaguchi’s breath hitches.

“Good?” he asks, and Tsukishima just nods.

The tap takes forever to get warm. Yamaguchi rubs his sore fingers with the frigid water, careful but firm. The water still gushes from the faucet. It splashes over the porcelain but Tsukishima still hears his heart throbbing, still feels it like a knocking in his chest and throat, quicker now and with greater force.

Yamaguchi turns the knob. The splashing stops.

“Tsukki,” he breathes, teetering on his feet. “You did so well…”

His voice whispers through the room. Yamaguchi looks up at him. Tsukishima inhales more sharply than he means to when his grip on his wrist tightens and Yamaguchi brings his hand to his mouth, ghosting warm breaths over Tsukishima’s knuckles. Yamaguchi presses his mouth against his skin, still cold, still wet. Water drips from Tsukishima’s fingers. A few droplets soak into Yamaguchi’s jersey.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

Tsukishima is about to ask what he means, finally prying his voice from his throat, but cuts off with a gasp as Yamaguchi slips his thumb into his mouth. He curls his tongue under the digit, cradling it. His grip on Tsukishima’s wrist tightens again. He tugs Tsukishima’s hand closer, farther, closer, farther—his thumb pushes in, pulls out, pushes in, pulls out of his mouth, slick and warm, a wild contrast to the cool water from the sink.

Tsukishima’s opposite hand grabs the white porcelain rim of the sink at his side. He braces himself. Pulled by the sudden motion, Yamaguchi glances over. His eyes flick back to Tsukishima and he hums, low and slow, communicating something that sounds like praise, sounds like another compliment, his lips sliding down to the base of Tsukishima’s thumb. Tsukishima stutters back.

He pushes out a breath as Yamaguchi pulls his hand away, his thumb slipping wetly from his mouth.

“They’re so long,” he mumbles. His mouth still sounds full. He unfurls Tsukishima’s middle finger with his own and Tsukishima feels the stretch in his ring finger, in his pinky, the slightest barb of pain poking into him. Yamaguchi presses a kiss to his knuckle. Against his skin, he murmurs, “Your fingers.”

The barb jabs harder as Yamaguchi takes his middle finger into his mouth. His cut stings but he doesn’t tell Yamaguchi, doesn’t want him to stop, and it’s nothing Tsukishima can’t handle. Yamaguchi’s spit is slick, pooling in his mouth and around the tip of Tsukishima’s finger. Yamaguchi hums again. It soothes the sting. Tsukishima tips his head back, his mouth slack and panting, bathed in white fluorescent light. Around his wrist, Yamaguchi’s hand twitches. He pulls Tsukishima’s finger in deeper. He hollows his cheeks to keep him there and Tsukishima stutters again and presses the pad of his finger into the very back of Yamaguchi’s soft tongue. It’s deep but Yamaguchi doesn’t falter. He only encourages him with the whine that slides up his throat, buzzing against Tsukishima’s sore skin.

Tsukishima’s breathing eclipses the cacophony of the echoic bathroom. The tile and porcelain ignore the residual creaks of old plumbing and the swish of mesh jersey fabric as Yamaguchi shifts in place, restless. Tsukishima pants up at the ceiling. The cadence swims through the room. Yamaguchi’s eyes flutter shut as he listens. Tsukishima’s jacket clings to his shoulders from the heat that builds on his skin, in his stomach and on his face, in all his fingers but his thumb as Yamaguchi’s spit cools and dries. Tsukishima bends his middle finger. He tips his head down and watches the way Yamaguchi’s eyes squeeze harder shut as his fingernail scrapes the roof of his mouth.

A wet, suction sound resounds when Yamaguchi pulls Tsukishima’s index finger into his mouth, too. Tsukishima sighs and Yamaguchi rubs his tongue up both his fingers and down again, so slowly, sliding back and forth with ease. His hollowed cheeks exaggerate his cheekbones and the tan, freckled skin stretched over them, red with both residual exhaustion from their game and how he flushes now with Tsukishima’s fingers deep in his mouth. His grip on Tsukishima’s wrist tightens and he plunges his fingers deeper in, tilting his head. His tongue slides between his fingers, separating them, thrusting slickly between the digits as they flinch. His lips stretch over Tsukishima’s knuckles. Tsukishima works his fingers in time with him, plunging them into Yamaguchi’s willing mouth.

“Tsukki,” he garbles around Tsukishima’s fingers, “ah, Tsukki, please—”

Tsukishima doesn’t feel the sting now, doesn’t feel his small cut reopening as he thrusts. Yamaguchi’s tongue is too wet, too warm. His eyes flutter open. He and Tsukishima stare at each other, eyes glassy and wide, and Yamaguchi steps forward, letting go of Tsukishima altogether.

He presses his palm to the bulge in his shorts. Tsukishima jerks forward, his eyes cranking shut. He pushes a harsh breath through his teeth and his dick pulses with it, right against the flat of Yamaguchi’s palm, heat leaking through his shorts, exchanging. Yamaguchi gets on his knees in front of him, right on the filthy tile. His lips glare red.

“Is it okay if I—?” he breathes.

Tsukishima’s hips jut forward on their own. His erection bumps Yamaguchi’s throat.

“Yamaguchi,” Tsukishima sighs. Yamaguchi swallows hard and stares up at him, waiting for permission. “The door,” Tsukishima finishes. His aching fingers tighten their grip on the sink.

Yamaguchi crawls to the door. The click of the lock screams through the small space.

He’s swift as he crawls back to kneel at Tsukishima’s feet. He doesn’t wait this time before he pulls Tsukishima from his shorts. His fingers grip tightly around the base of him and Tsukishima tips his head back again, breathing hard, his hands reaching forward to scrabble at Yamaguchi’s shoulders. Yamaguchi leans forward and into his touch. He puffs hot breaths on the head of his dick.

His hands curl around the backs of his knees and he takes Tsukishima in his mouth like it’s been a century, swallowing him immediately down. His mouth is already so wet from Tsukishima’s fingers; so ready. The insides of his cheeks are soft as they cradle him. They sear his sensitive skin, a pleasant burn, igniting once and again as Yamaguchi works his mouth down. Yamaguchi buzzes around him, hands sliding up the backs of Tsukishima’s thighs and he doesn’t know how, but Tsukishima knows it’s his name, sweet and hot and humming around his cock as it pulses over Yamaguchi’s tongue.

Yamaguchi licks him, then, pulling back to rub his tongue against the head. Tsukishima whimpers. Yamaguchi chokes out a swear and supplements his tongue with his hand. He pumps Tsukishima at his base, still slick with spit, the soft sound of skin on wet skin rustling between them. Tsukishima’s hand releases Yamaguchi’s jersey to cup his cheek. Yamaguchi looks up at him with his mouth red and full, working hard and wet, and Tsukishima needs to fill him further, needs to stretch him further, harder.

He leaves a spot of blood on Yamaguchi’s cheek when his hand slides up to dig through his hair. His other hand meets there too, winding into Yamaguchi’s brown hair, gripping him tight. Tsukishima’s hips twitch forward. He pulls in a deep, shaky breath.

“Can I—?” he asks, twitching forward again.

Yamaguchi’s hand falls to curl around Tsukishima’s knee again. He nods.

Tsukishima exhales. He swings his hips forward a little, then back. Yamaguchi taps a finger on the back of his knee—more. Tsukishima nods down at him. One unassisted thrust into Yamaguchi’s mouth and Tsukishima can’t hold his head up anymore, his chin falling to his chest, his cock hard and throbbing. He pushes in again. Yamaguchi’s tongue slides under him. He relents and when he juts forward, he brings Yamaguchi’s mouth down around him with his grip on his hair, whimpering as Yamaguchi hums his thanks.

He loses his rhythm as he continues to thrust, teetering dangerously at his edge. He’s deep in Yamaguchi’s mouth, so deep, encompassed in slick, sizzling warmth so thick that it leaks into his thighs as they tremble, so intense that it climbs into his abdomen as it clenches. Tsukishima loses his grip on Yamaguchi’s hair, distracted by the slide of Yamaguchi’s tongue. Drool trickles from his lips. Tsukishima's hands quake as they cradle Yamaguchi’s face, cupping it, holding him there as he fucks his mouth.

“God, Yamaguchi, _yes_.”

Yamaguchi’s hands scrabble at the backs of his thighs, leaving marks.

Tsukishima comes down his throat, shuddering inside him, and the bathroom falls quiet again. Calloused fingertips soothe where they scraped. The faucet drips. Fabric shifts as Tsukishima shrugs out of his jacket. Yamaguchi’s bare knees squeak on the dirty bathroom tile and they both pant into the hot, damp air.

**Author's Note:**

> guys. you guys. m-ochaa on tumblr drew some gorgeous nsfw art for this fic which has actually made my entire life. [check it out](http://m-ochaaandsin.tumblr.com/post/167184499515/white-noise-by-deanpendragon-some-good-ass).


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